


Paradigm of the Daleks

by Nicor_Fyrweorm



Series: Last of the Time Lords [4]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alien Time Lords (Doctor Who), Episode: s05e03 Victory of the Daleks, Gen, Genocide, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mental Breakdown, Referenced Time War (Doctor Who), Serious Injuries, The Master Has Issues, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Time War Angst (Doctor Who), War, Warning: Daleks, You Have Been Warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-29 17:17:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21413791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nicor_Fyrweorm/pseuds/Nicor_Fyrweorm
Summary: Winston Churchill wanted to protect his people. Edwin Bracewell wanted to help win the war. Amy Pond wanted to see her Raggedy Doctor happy.The Master wanted blood.Or the one where they answer Churchill's call and realize nothing matters anymore.
Relationships: Tenth Doctor & The Master (Simm), The Doctor & The Master (Doctor Who), The Master & Amy Pond (Doctor Who)
Series: Last of the Time Lords [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1511825
Comments: 3
Kudos: 50





	Paradigm of the Daleks

**Author's Note:**

> Beware of the tags, this one turned out way darker than I thought…
> 
> Also, why isn't there a _Warning: Daleks_ tag? There needs to be one.

Amy adjusts the suit jacket one last time and finally smiles at her reflection, satisfied. The A-line navy skirt is extremely comfortable, the white wide-cuffed blouse is a perfect fit, the velvet short-heeled shoes are surprisingly in her size, and the shoulder-padded navy jacket is as snug as if it was literally made for her. 

“I've got to say, the forties definitely look good on you,” she tells her reflection, twirling around one more time to make sure her bun stays in place, before finally leaving the mirror. “Where do you get all this stuff?” she asks aloud, sifting through the clothes hung chaotically everywhere. 

“Oh, you know, around,” the Doctor answers from wherever he's changing, and Amy follows his voice. “Centuries of travel do that, you end up collecting souvenirs and the odd stray human here and there.” 

“Hey, I resemble that remark,” Amy protests with a smirk, finally turning around a coat rack to see the Doctor in front of his own mirror. “What do you think?” she asks, twirling once more, and sees him look at her on the mirror before finally turning with a smirk on his face. 

He's dressed in a nice silk-like shirt, a silver-lined navy waistcoat over it, square white handkerchief in its pocket, with maroon pants and shiny dark shoes. He has a dark velvet coat draped over an arm, and has just finished adjusting a bright sapphire cravat. 

“Dashing,” the Doctor answers with a smirk, puffing up regally, and Amy has to blink, surprised. 

“Thank you,” she finally tells him with a pompous smile and a curtsy. 

“I was talking about me,” he snorts as he walks past, putting on his jacket, and Amy grabs the closest item – a long and colorful stripped scarf – and throws it at his head. 

“Your head's going to float off one of these days,” she laughs, walking past him with her nose in the air as he chuckles and carefully folds the scarf. “And I'm pretty sure those aren't 1940s clothes, by the way. Now, come on, Raggedy Man! We'll be late!” 

“We're in a time machine, we _literally_ can't be late,” the Doctor huffs as he finally joins her in the control room. “And call me Professor. I have the feeling I'm going to need to be the Professor this time.” 

“The Professor?” Amy repeats, confused and more than a bit curious. 

After all, this is the first time, other than when chasing the Atraxi off, that he has actually introduced himself with a title instead of a made-up name. Just how many identities does he have anyway? Harold Saxon was his politician persona, so who is this Professor supposed to be? 

“Mellow guy, really clever. I was a great professor, built a rocket control panel out of noodles,” he answers simply, grinning widely but with true pride as he fiddles with the TARDIS' controls. 

That is more than he ever showed for the name 'Harold', back at Starship UK. This amount of _feeling_ is only reserved for the name Doctor, which makes Amy think this Professor name is actually, truly, _his,_ in a way 'Harold' never was. 

… She would _love_ to hear the story of his life, someday. But as long as he keeps refusing to take back his name, as long as he keeps trying on new identities, she can't ask. 

Amy knows, in some way, what he's going through – after all, she ditched her own name to separate from that little girl that believed in time-travelling aliens, made herself _Amy Pond._ So, she's aware that he is running away from something, trying to split from whatever happened to hurt _the Doctor_ to such an extent. And so, she accepts all the name switching and waits patiently for the day he'll get his footing back, the day he'll find himself again and be able to look at his past instead of run from it. 

So, until that day comes, Amy will smile and wait and bite her tongue every time she feels like asking about past adventures more in-depth than he's comfortable talking about. 

“That isn't that great an achievement. Kids build rockets out of pasta all the time,” she mocks, sitting in the comfy jump seat as he finishes inputting the coordinates. 

“Ah, but human children can't make them _fly,_ can they?” he retorts, sending her a sharp grin over his shoulder, and Amy does a doubletake. 

“Wait, you mean you were actually serious about that?” 

“It was actually gluten extract, but it looked like boiled gray noodles. Perfect to bind the neutralino map,” he answers nonchalantly with a shrug, piloting the moaning and shuddering TARDIS while Amy holds onto the seat and gapes. 

“No way! You actually built a rocket out of food? On your own?” 

“Not the whole rocket, just the launch systems, when we ran out of parts. And of course I had help. A little blue bug, always buzzing around, driving me mad.” 

“_Everyone_ drives you mad,” Amy snorts, hopping off the seat when the TARDIS finally lands, and the Professor blinks, startled. 

“Huh. Well, what do you know? You're actually right,” he laughs with a large sharp grin, joining her by the door and offering her his arm. “Shall we, Miss Pond?” 

“Yes, we shall, Professor,” she answers with a chuckle, twining their arms, and, without more delay, they step outside and let the door lock behind their backs. 

Amy's smile falls as soon as she sees all the guns pointed at them, her grip on his arm tightening. The Professor, on the other hand, hums in surprise, lifting his eyebrows. 

“I know these are wartimes and all, but really? Can you be any more cliché?” he asks calmly, unbothered, as he turns to the, ah, _round_ gentleman standing behind the row of soldiers, cigar between his lips and hat and glasses on. 

“Is that Winston Churchill?” Amy whispers, leaning closer to the Professor, who answers with a 'yup', popped 'p' and all. 

“Ah, Doctor. We meet again,” _Winston Churchill_ says out loud, rolling the words like a classic Bond villain, and Amy feels her eyebrows climb to her hairline. 

“I go by Professor now, if you don't mind. 'Doctor' doesn't really suit me,” the Professor answers amiably, still ignoring the guns. “Now, you called?” 

“The TARDIS key. Think, Professor, of all the lives that could be saved. Won't you give it to me?” Churchill asks, gesturing a bit with his cigar, and Amy looks between the Prime Minister and the alien, not sure what to think. 

Churchill called for the Doctor's help, but the way he's acting now kind of destroys any idea of peaceful relationships she could have imagined before. Then again, the Professor isn't exactly worried… 

“Think of all the worlds that could be lost. No, I don't think I will. The TARDIS stays with me,” the Professor answers, but this time, there's a note of finality, a warning, in his careless words and calm tone. 

Churchill chuckles and waves a hand, and the soldiers put down their guns. 

“One day, I'll convince you otherwise. But now, come on. I _did_ call for you, after all,” he tells them, cheerful, as he leads the way down the corridor. 

Still stunned, Amy doesn't release the Professor's arm, following in silence, as she tries to piece things together. Is this some kind of inside joke? Or are the two of them serious, yet know each other well enough to just shrug off threats of bodily harm? 

“You changed your face again.” 

“Yeah, well, not exactly my first choice,” the Professor huffs, pouting like a child, and Amy finally lets his arm go, smothering a laugh. 

_Boys. _

Oh, well. She's here with Winston Churchill and no one is trying to kill each other. It could be worse. 

And that's when the whole building rocks with an explosion. 

Everyone else seems unbothered by it, though, so, after a couple seconds of surprise, Amy catches up to the two men with a wide smile. 

“Oh, we're in the Cabinet Rooms, aren't we?” she exclaims, and, after a puff of his cigar, Churchill nods. 

“The top-secret heart of the War Office, right under London,” the Professor answers cheerfully, hands in his pockets and as composed as if he was in a palace. 

“Indeed,” Churchill agrees, pulling his cigar out of his mouth before turning to the Professor with a serious look. “You're late, by the way. I rang you a month ago.” 

“She did it again!” the Professor groans, dropping his head back, while Amy laughs. 

“We're in a time machine, we _literally_ can't be late?” she quotes, earning herself a scoff and a glare that only make her laugh again. 

“It's the TARDIS, not me! We had a, uh, _disagreement_ a bit back, and she hasn't forgiven me yet.” 

“You must have done _something,”_ Amy pokes, waiting patiently while Churchill talks with a young uniformed woman that brought him some forms for him to sign. “You do have this bad habit of pissing people off, after all.” 

“Hey! It is _not_ a bad habit, thank you very much. I put a lot of effort into it,” he protests, puffing up indignantly, and, suppressing a new bout of laughter, Amy nods solemnly. 

“Yes, of course you do,” she answers, keeping her calm for all of two seconds before a smile splits her face. “Your spoiled brat imitation is the best.” 

“Why, thank you!” he chirps back with a huge grin, and the two of them share a laugh before Churchill gestures for them to follow. 

“Come on, Professor. I have something to show you,” he tells them, guiding them to a lift after a brief exchange with a soldier. 

All cheer dies as soon as the doors close behind them and they start their ascent. The tension fills the lift much like the cigar's smoke, which the Professor waves away from his face with his nose scrunched in distaste. 

“We stand at a crossroads, Professor, quite alone, with our backs to the wall. Invasion is expected daily. So, I will grasp with both hands anything that will give us an advantage over the Nazi menace,” Churchill tells them, seriously, and Amy turns to the Professor, who is analyzing the Prime Minister almost expectantly. 

Amy rolls her eyes. 

_Like a child with a new toy,_ she thinks, and doesn't bother hiding her smile. At least this time, unlike with the Starship, he's relaxed, even with the war all around them. No cries unheard by human ears, no extra or missing pieces, no blatant secrets. Just a human war, and a man desperate enough to keep his people safe to call for the help of an alien time traveler. 

It's sad that she should think this way, but Amy is _glad. _

They set off as soon as they were done showering, after receiving the call, once Amy convinced the Professor she was feeling up to another adventure, no need for a nap. They took a bite back at the Starship, as they made their way to the TARDIS through the market, and she really hadn't felt tired. 

She isn't tired now either, though she'll definitely need a good night's sleep once this is over. 

Amy wonders for a moment if there exists such a thing as time-lag, before the smoke and the barrage balloons covering London steal her breath away. 

The rooftop they're on is covered in sandbags, soldiers standing at the edges. There's a higher roof level with even more sandbags, accessible up a ladder on the wall, with a man wearing a lab coat and a helmet standing on it, looking at the sky through a pair of large binoculars. 

“Professor, this is Professor Edwin Bracewell. Head of our Ironsides Project,” Churchill shouts over the roar of the wind, approaching planes and falling bombs, gesturing at the scientist. 

The man turns at the sound of his name, putting the binoculars off his glasses, and gives them a wave. 

“How do you do?” he calls amicably before returning to his observation, after both Amy and the Professor give him a couple waves of their own. 

“What is this Ironsides Project?” the Professor asks, but Churchill is pulled away by one of the sentries before he can answer. 

Unbothered, he merely shrugs and returns to Amy's side, who's rubbing her upper arms to try and chase away the cold of realization. This is London. In the Second World War. 1941, constant bombings, so much death and destruction… And here they are, an alien and a time traveler, and there's nothing they can do. 

“Oh, Professor. How can you do this? How can you go to all these magnificent places knowing there will be all these horrible wars and – and do _nothing?”_ she asks, curling a bit more into herself but turning when she sees him shrug. 

“It's history. Everything, future or past, is history. You can't fix everything and you can't save everyone. The sooner you accept that, the better. Bad things happen all the time,” he answers nonchalantly, looking out at the balloons and ignoring the explosion of a bomb fallen close by. 

“Still…” Amy whispers, also looking out at the city and feeling very small and very helpless. 

“Hey now, no need for that. Like I said, bad things happen all the time. That doesn't mean you have to just stop everything and wait for death. In fact, it's more the reason to go out and do things! Bad things _will_ happen. So, don't you just sit down and wait for them, _go._ Explore, live, do the things you want to, so that, when those bad things _do_ happen, you have no regrets left,” he huffs, standing taller, and Amy can't do more than stare at him with wide eyes for a moment, absorbing the words. 

Finally, with a smile on her lips, she straightens and bumps her shoulder into his. 

“Alright, wise guy. But don't spoil my future, you hear me? I want to be surprised still.” 

“Now, why would I do _that?” _

“Ready, Bracewell?” Churchill calls, interrupting their smile exchange, and, curious, both of them turn to see the scientist who, without looking away from the sky, answers with a thumbs up. 

“On my order… Fire!” 

Bolts of green laser fly from behind the sandbags on the higher rooftop with a laser-y twang, and the line of barely distinguishable planes approaching the city explodes upon impact. 

The Professor gasps and takes a step back, bowing his head to press the heels of his hands against his temples while closing his eyes tightly. 

“Professor?” Amy asks, worried, and he answers with a deep breath and slightly chocked chuckling. 

“Oh, wow, I _really_ need to get some sleep. That almost sounded like—nope. Definitely not. I'm sleep deprived, must be starting to hallucinate,” he rambles, mostly to himself, before taking in another deep breath and straightening with a too wide grin. “Fine, fine, just had a bit of auditory deja vu. Still, that didn't sound human, definitely not the technology of the time, wouldn't you agree?” 

“Yeah… Whatever that was just blew up the planes with one shot too. What do you think it might be?” Amy asks, shaking her worry off in favor of the issue at hand. 

After this is over, she's _definitely_ sitting him down again for another intervention. They met after something that managed to almost destroy the TARDIS. Then, while Amy spent twelve years before their next meeting, it was just five minutes for him, and, according to his own words, almost no time passed during the two years after the Atraxi. And neither the Professor nor Amy have slept since she boarded the TARDIS. So, that begs the question, how long has it been since he last had one full night of sleep? 

If Amy doesn't like the answer to that, he'll be _sorry. _

“That's our new secret weapon. The Ironsides,” Churchill tells them, puffing up proudly, before gesturing towards the ladder in invitation. 

So, without any more delay, the Professor climbs up with Amy right on his heels, joining the widely smiling Bracewell, who has just put his binoculars down, satisfied with the destruction of the German bombers. 

“Ah, Professor… What was it again?” 

“Just the Professor,” the alien answers with an amicable smile, shaking the man's hand. “And this is Amy Pond. Say, Professor Bracewell, what are these Ironsides of yours? Quite the destructive power!” 

“Thank you, Professor, Miss Pond. The Ironsides are an invention of mine, created to help the Allied cause in any way they can. Advance!” Bracewell tells them, shouting the last word over his shoulder at the sandbags. “They will smash the German forces and win the war. That is the ultimate aim I programmed them with,” he adds proudly as, with some whirring, one of his Ironsides appears from behind the sandbags. 

Amy's first thought is that it's _big,_ almost as tall as herself. The second is that it looks like a peppershaker that someone painted khaki green, wrapped a toolbelt around it, and stuck some spheres at the bottom and some sticks on the top and middle. The third is that the Professor has stopped breathing. 

As soon as she registers that last one, Amy whirls around, worried. 

The Professor is standing stock still, pale as death and with his eyes blown wide and a really pale amber. He doesn't look like he's breathing, but that must be because of him being _literally frozen in terror. _

Amy thinks she should reach for him, try to shake him and demand he breathes again and tells her what is wrong, when the Ironside turns to them. One of its 'arms' looks like a whisk, while the other reminds her of a plunger. Its two 'ears' seem to be made of glass, and Amy has to wonder if they light up. Its 'nose' is actually an eyestalk, judging by the blue light at the end. 

All in all, it would be a _ridiculous_ invention, if it wasn't for the fact that, as soon as it 'looks' at them, the Professor takes in a sharp breath, jerks back – and falls off the rooftop. 

“Doctor!” Amy shouts, reaching for him, but she's too late. 

He falls on his back with a loud thud and breathless _oomph,_ quickly scrambling to his feet in the couple seconds it takes Amy to start her descent. So, she's face to face with his terrified expression when she finally hops to the ground, pale amber eyes locked on the higher rooftop, where a worried Bracewell is looking down at them with the Ironside rolling smoothly to his side. 

“Are you alright?” he calls, clearly concerned, but the Doctor shakily moves further away from them, shaking his head softly in denial as he whispers broken sentences under his breath. 

“It can't be… It can't be, they were destroyed… _It can't be…”_ he whimpers, completely unaware of Amy's presence at his side, hovering and torn between hugging him or trying to make herself heard through whatever's going on in his head. 

She's not sure whether to even _touch_ him, for God's sake. As he is right now, he can either not notice her touch or attack her. 

So, in the end, Amy decides talking will be better for both of them. 

“Doctor?” she calls softly, barely above a whisper – and jumps when he turns to her with a full flinch, panicked eyes meeting hers as he starts hyperventilating. 

“They were supposed to be gone,” he whimpers, almost as if _begging_ her to tell him that 'they' are, and that whatever he's so afraid of is nothing more than his imagination and the lack of sleep, but before she can put herself together, he turns back to Bracewell and the Ironside and all his panic morphs into _hate._ “What are you doing here,” he _snarls,_ and Amy is the one to jerk away in fear this time. 

True, honest to God _fear._ For the first time in fourteen years, Amy is actually _afraid_ of what her Raggedy Doctor might do. This is not the coolly calm Raggedy Man who made the Atraxi run, or the crazed Harold Saxon who threatened to kill the whole of Starship UK for what they did to the last Star Whale, or even the serious Professor who would not surrender the TARDIS key, not even when kind of joking with Winston Churchill. 

Whoever this man is, Amy is not even sure if he is the Doctor, with such hatred and deadliness in his every line, and that only terrifies her even more. The Doctor is crazy, grumpy, quirky, serious, eccentric, cool, childish, composed, resentful, inspiring, cheeky, reliable… Amy's Raggedy Doctor is a lot of things, but _hateful_ is not one of them. 

Or, at least, she didn't know it was until now. 

Judging by how he shuffles back, eyes wide, Bracewell is as unsettled and fearful as Amy. The Ironside, on the other hand, stays completely still. 

And then, with a robotic voice that Amy definitely wasn't expecting but that fits it perfectly, the Ironside _speaks. _

“I am your soldier.” 

For a moment, the Doctor looks about to throw up. 

Then, he runs. 

* * *

Utah, North America, year 2012. One lone and damaged Dalek, fallen through the Time War and sold as nothing more than an alien curiosity. It committed suicide when, in an attempt at repairing itself, it became contaminated with human DNA. 

Satellite Five, Earth, year 200,100. The Dalek Emperor, whose ship fell through time after the end of the Time War, and half a million Daleks cultivated from the worst of humanity. They were destroyed when the Bad Wolf, a human infused with the power of the Time Vortex through the TARDIS, divided them through all of time and space, there and nowhere at the same time. A fate worse than death, brought about by the ingenuity of a human brain bent on protecting its friends. 

Canary Wharf, London, year 2007. Four Daleks of the Cult of Skaro, hidden in a Void Ship during the Time War with a Genesis Ark. The Daleks from the Genesis Ark were sent to the Void alongside an army of Cybermen from a parallel universe, but the Cult of Skaro escaped. 

New York, North America, year 1930. The four Daleks from the Cult of Skaro, who used an emergency temporal shift to avoid being sucked into the Void, and a group of Dalek-human hybrids. The leader of the Cult merged with a human and was executed by its followers, two other Daleks were killed when their human hybrids rebelled, and the surviving hybrids were euthanized by the fourth Dalek, who escaped with another temporal shift. 

The Medusa Cascade, Terran year 2009. The last Dalek from the Cult of Skaro, Davros, and the New Dalek Empire. The first's teleport took it into the Time War—probably when it was weakened by Gallifrey being taken out that fateful Christmas at the Naismith's—for it to rescue Davros, who created a new race of Daleks. The Daleks took twenty-seven planets, including Earth, to create a new Cruciform, the Crucible, and perfect the Z-Neutrino Destabilizer into a Reality Bomb. However, thanks to the Biological Metacrisis, which resulted from the combination of regeneration energy in a severed Time Lord hand, Artron energy from a time-traveling human, the human's own DNA and the unstable temporal pocket in the Cascade, the Daleks were destroyed, every single one of them. 

Only, apparently, they weren't. Some of them survived and they came here, to London in the year 1941, and are now 'working' for the Allied cause, aiming only to defeat the Nazis and prevent the invasion of the United Kingdom. 

Koschei closes the archives onscreen with a breathless hysterical giggle and collapses to his knees. 

_Dun-dun-dun-dun. Dun-dun-dun-dun. _

He knows it's nothing but his heartsbeat, pounding in his ears with increasing speed as he takes in quicker and shallower breaths, but his stupid brains are unable to listen to that beat without immediately relating it to the drums. The drums, a rhythm of war, a reflection of madness, a tempo of _death. _

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” 

His throat closes, blocking his attempts at taking in the air he seems unable to get, and so he shakes his head instead. 

“I was supposed to destroy all of them. None should have escaped, they were supposed to die with Gallifrey. I am so, _so_ sorry.” 

“_Shut it!”_ Koschei shouts, turning around and standing up in the same motion, but Theta just stands there, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched and defeated expression fixed on him. “You, apologizing? _Hah!_ What in Omega's cursed name do you have to apologize for? _I_ was the perfect warrior for the Time War, _I_ am the one who should apologize! _I_ was guarding the Cruciform! _I_ should have stopped those bastards, kept them _away_ from it so we could collect all the planets and _erase the Daleks from existence!” _

“I'm so sorry, Koschei,” Theta apologizes again with that low and solemn tone that says more than his words. 

“I said _shut up!”_ he roars, lashing out with time feelers that make the air ripple all around him with heat and ash long gone, and the TARDIS' background thrum turns into a warning buzz. “I was the one who broke the time lock, the one who let the Daleks get to the Cruciform and obtain its schematics, the one who _ran!”_ he adds, ignoring the increasing blurriness of his sight, the shaking of his fists and the cracking of his voice. “I'm the one who should be _dead…” _

The glass under him feels too hot against his clammy skin when he drops to his knees and presses his forehead against it, curling as tightly as he can and fisting his short hair painfully. 

“Gallifrey is gone, the Time Lords are gone, _you_ are gone… But the Daleks are still _here…” _

“Oh, Koschei…” Theta whispers, heartbroken, and close enough that Koschei knows the ghost is trying to hug him much like the actual Doctor did once he returned his body to its proper timestamp, back aboard the _Valiant. _

The humans might have chalked that to whatever 'magic' and 'faith' their pitiful brains could conjure, but Koschei knows better. Time Lords are multidimensional, not merely tridimensional, but to properly interact with the rest of the universe without driving whole planets insane, they restrict themselves. Flaring and actually using their multidimensional aspects like the Doctor had done then, would have destroyed the humans' minds… if he had actually actively used them. Instead, he had harnessed the Artron energy produced by billions of human minds focused on one very specific branch of the timeline, channeled through the Archangel Network, which was specifically designed to support and enhance the aspects related to mind-manipulation. 

_Faith and hope and prayer,_ the Master had mocked. _A telepathic field binding the whole human race together,_ Martha Jones had thought. Wrong, the both of them, but no less right for it. Time Lord telepathy is not of the mind, it is of their multidimensional aspect. There is no such thing as a 'telepathic field' for a Time Lord. If one was to try such a thing… Well. There was a reason they didn't do it, and it was that straightening the timelines after that was a pain, if possible at all. Which is why they found alternatives, such as the Archangel Network, and why the Doctor had been able to _tune into the psychic network and integrate with its matrices._ The Master's mind had been nowhere near it, he had to merely channel a trickle of his self, of the impression he wished to convey, and let the network transmit it. A bigger version of the psychic impression they projected as naturally as breathing, to hide their more otherworldly aspects of their multidimensionality from the primitive tridimensional creatures that populated the majority of the universe. They might not be able to deal with them, but they could feel the 'wrongness' Time Lords exuded. 

And so, the Doctor had connected with the Archangel Network, and used the energy from all those human minds to bring forth a timeline in which he wasn't de-aged, and in which he'd decided that sacrificing a ship was worth the whole of the universe and let loose. 

Even if the Master had disregarded any non-interference rules he still adhered to, he wouldn't have had enough energy himself to counteract the amount the Doctor was channeling. So, he had done the second-best thing and coiled himself as tightly as he'd been able to, hidden as much as possible inside his tridimensional shell so that the Doctor could not link properly and bend him to his wishes. 

The Master might have always been the better at the Time Lord version of telepathy, but powered by that amount of Artron energy? He wouldn't have stood a chance. 

Fortunately, the Doctor had still been as sentimental as ever, and so the Master had been able to keep him at bay for just enough time for the Toclafane to arrange a distraction. 

He's under no delusions that, sentimental fool or not, the Doctor would not have hesitated to immobilize him. And, with such power at his disposition, it would have most likely involved ripping the Master's time feelers off, at the very least. He would have grown new ones in no time, after all, but that would have kept him controlled, subdued, and, most importantly, completely unable to reach for human minds to subtly work his telepathy. Luckily for him, the Master had chosen to surrender when the Captain had cut his escape, and so spared himself any more pain than that caused by Lucy's shot. 

… Koschei would give _anything_ to be there right now, to accept his fate and regenerate, even if that would have left him at the Doctor's mercy. Eventually, he would have checked on the drums, realized _what_ they were, and they would have fixed it. It would have been a tortuous and really lengthy and twisty road, harsh on the both of them, painful to the extreme, but there was a chance it wouldn't have led to the Naismith mansion and the failed return of Gallifrey. That Dalek, Caan, would have appeared again, as they are wont to do, but it wouldn't have been able to get into the time lock. The Daleks wouldn't have returned, there wouldn't have been a Crucible, Donna Noble wouldn't have had to forget – though, there's also the chance that Donna Noble wouldn't have met the Doctor again, but even then, it would have been better than her eventual fate. She was a strong one, Donna Noble. She had managed with no problem without the Doctor, after all, had managed to do some investigating and found him after their first encounter and, after their last, found a loving husband and got married. How many of the Doctor's other companions could claim that? 

“Stop that. Koschei, stop that, you know you can't do that,” Theta chastises, voice sharp, and Koschei tenses, only then realizing how he'd been weaving timelines in an effort to reach the splitting point of that Could Have Been. 

He really can't do that. The paradox such would cause, all the Fixed Points that would twist the universe back in place, would rip him to shreds, at the very least. A Could Have Been around _his own timeline?_ Madness. 

Well, no one ever said _Koschei_ was the sanest of people, anyway. 

But even then, Koschei lets out a tremulous breath and unravels the crackling and straining timeline he'd been messing with. For something _this big,_ he would need tools that no longer exist. 

Paradox machines are one thing, and, even with a TARDIS, they are hard to build as it is. A Could Have Been on a Time Lord's personal timeline, involving _another_ Time Lord, one whose own timeline is entwined with the first's, and so close to a paradox? 

No one can do that. Not anymore. And certainly not outside of something as intense as a thrice Rassilon-damned Time War. 

“But they can't be here…” Koschei whines, and is not ashamed to admit it, curling further before he finally scrounges enough strength to take in a shaky breath and meet Theta's pained eyes. “They can't be, we destroyed them, locked the Time War again. They can't be here, it's not _fair.” _

“Oh, I know, trust me. I do,” Theta scoffs, dropping to the floor so he can glare at his hands on his lap. “I always lose everything that matters to me, but they _always_ come back. And now they're haunting you too, and it's so _not_ fair… Why would they even be _here?_ And working for Churchill, what is that about?” 

“You should be the one here. You would go over the weirdest tangent you could find and somehow figure out their endgame and put a stop to it,” Koschei whispers, staring unseeingly at the glass floor with a scowl that is not so much angry as it is pained. 

“You give me too much credit. Half the time it's dumb luck.” 

“Liar.” 

“Alright, ten percent of the time,” Theta corrects himself with an unbothered shrug, before answering Koschei's snort with a small but sincere hopeful grin. “Besides, why would you need me for this? Come on, Koschei, don't you remember all those missions, back during our service? Oh, you were _brilliant!_ Remember that once with the Nestene, on whatsits name…” 

“Przzkl?” he supplies with an amused grin, and Theta perks up with a bright smile. 

“That one! You definitely ran circles around them! Makes one wonder why they chose to trust you, all those centuries later. But still, that one was brilliant!” he muses, though he immediately forfeits any curiosity in favor of another bright grin. 

“What, you think I didn't have my own adventures after you ran away?” Koschei asks with a mocking grin, before sobering. “It's not the same thing.” 

“No, it really isn't. You're far more experienced now, and with no drums to distract you,” Theta answers, also serious, and doesn't smile until their eyes meet again. “You don't need me for this, Koschei. You never did. Now, go out there and be magnificent.” 

Koschei hesitates for a moment before swallowing his automatic answer that _I really do need you,_ nodding instead. 

Theta nods, beaming, and pops out of existence. 

Koschei closes his eyes and takes one last deep breath to push the echo of his much calmer heartsbeat out of his head. And then, when he's centered himself once more, the Professor gets to his feet, straightens and dusts his clothes, and moves to the door. 

Amy stops just before the TARDIS, pulling back the hand that had been reaching for the handle in surprise before she gives him a thorough look. She's holding a tray with a couple of steaming tea cups and a plate of dry biscuits, and, almost against his will, the Professor gives them a long look before he refocuses on Amy. 

So what if this body is still geared towards obtaining as much food as it can? It isn't like the Professor has given it any time to accept the fact he no longer needs as much. And, besides, he _does_ like eating this time around. Lucy's family had pampered him perhaps a bit too much, what with all the fancy restaurants and professional chefs working for them, and his status as Minister of Defense and Prime Minister after that hadn't helped curb the new habit. 

But back to Amy. 

“Are you alright? You were in there for almost an hour,” she asks worriedly, and the Professor grimaces when he sees that it really has been forty-eight minutes and nineteen seconds since he entered the TARDIS. 

“I needed to check on some things,” he answers as dismissively as possible, but his voice is too rough and subdued to produce the effect he wants. “Where did you get these?” he asks almost immediately after, grabbing a biscuit and hoping the change in topic is not too obvious. 

The look Amy gives him tells him that it _was_ quite obvious, so he immediately bites onto the biscuit to get some time to prepare a satisfactory answer – but Amy sighs instead, shoulders dropping. 

“They gave the All Clear not long after you left, so the Ironsides are serving tea now,” she answers instead, lifting the tray with an amused smile on her face. 

The Professor frowns, confused by her expression and lost as to how those words and the tea go together— 

_“That's our new secret weapon. The Ironsides.” _

—and spits the half-chewed biscuit out, gagging on the crumbs sticking to his tongue and the roof of his mouth, which he scratches off almost violently. 

Amy jerks away with a yelp, the cups shaking dangerously but not falling, even though some tea spills out. The Professor doesn't care, spitting the remnants of the biscuit and trying not to be sick as he realizes _the Daleks gave Amy that food and I almost ate it._ All his analysis of his biochemistry come clear, though, so either they didn't really put anything in the biscuits or he spit it out before anything that could have been in it got into him. 

He would like to say it's the first, as the second wouldn't fit the Daleks' style, but playing human toys isn't much like them either and yet they are doing it. 

So, just to be safe, the Professor runs his tongue all over the inside of his mouth to make sure he got everything before one last spit. 

“What was that about?!” Amy exclaims, leaving the tray on a mostly cleared shelf, with both worry and annoyance on her face. 

“What were you thinking?!” he snarls instead, gesturing widely at the tray. “Accepting food from a Dalek? Getting _anywhere close to a Dalek?!_ Don't you remember what they did to Earth, Amelia?!” 

“What are you on about? What problem do you have with the Ironsides? Look, whatever you're thinking, you're wrong. I talked with Churchill and he agreed to lend me their schematics to show you. See? Here. I was going to bring them in, but the door was locked, so I left them—” 

“You _what?!”_ the Professor manages to choke out, stiffening, as Amy grabs a roll of blueprints from another shelf. 

“I did some detective work. What, you thought a human wouldn't be able to figure some things out? It was really obvious it was the Ironsides that freaked you out, so I decided to learn more about them,” she answers proudly, unrolling one of the blueprints to show him the schematics to what _looks_ like a Dalek's armor, only with machinery inside instead of an actual Dalek. “Blueprints, statistics, field tests, photographs… Churchill gave me everything, to put you at ease. Bracewell—he's a Scottish genius, by the way, just pointing that out—invented them and approached one of the soldiers a few months ago,” she explains, handing him the blueprint that he takes with shaking hands, and ignoring his chocked 'invented'. “Of course, Churchill had his reservations, which is why he called you. He said he thought they were too good to be true. But after all of that trial time, he's thinking about building a hundred more of them,” she adds with a big grin, a picture of one of the 'Ironsides' in her hands and awe in her eyes, and the Professor _whimpers._ “Uh, are you alright? I know this is not how history is supposed to go, but—” 

“History?” he squeaks, bringing his shaking under control with a couple breaths and focusing on his anger instead. “Oh, it is history I am worried about right now, alright, the _future of the whole universe._ Did you seriously not tell Churchill about the Daleks? Remember the Medusa Cascade? Lots of planets in the sky, Daleks flying around killing and kidnapping people?” 

“What are those 'Daleks'?” 

And Koschei freezes again, before waving the blueprint—fake, _fake,_ there's no way this thing isn't _fake—_around. 

“They invaded your planet, stole it away!” he hisses, but her confusion and the worry towards him are genuine. “You can't… Do you really not remember…?” 

“No, sorry,” Amy answers softly, shaking her head, before dropping the papers on a shelf and reaching for his arm. “Professor, are you sure you're—” 

Koschei steps back, out of her reach, blueprint ripping as he clenches his hand into a white-knuckled fist, hatred and ire curling into a blazing star between his hearts. 

“Don't call me that,” he cuts, voice low and cold, and Amy tenses. “The Professor was a bumbling human _fool._ The Daleks want to play, think they can get scot-free with whatever they're planning just because they survived the War? Well, there's one last Time Lord they'll have to deal with,” he snarls, throwing away the ripped blueprint before storming out of the storage room. 

The first soldier they come across startles at the intensity of his glare, but easily directs them to Bracewell's laboratory after a bit of stammering. So, without a second to waste, Koschei follows the directions, with a worried and silent Amy right on his heels. 

If he wasn't so focused on their destination, Koschei would have turned around, asked Amy just what she's so worried about, and would have given her the simplest yet most accurate of explanations so that she would be reassured and stop getting on his nerves with all the worrying. But right now, there are more important things than Amy's worry or Koschei's bizarre urge to calm her down. There are Daleks to deal with. 

Koschei ran from the Daleks once – with a good reason, anyone with the slightest shred of survival instinct would have ran when faced with the Emperor, and even more so when they managed to take the Cruciform, if only in an attempt to lengthen their lifespan for a bit. 

But any Time Lord would have returned to the closest outpost, or to Gallifrey, to try and mount a counterattack to recover, or at least destroy, the Cruciform. Koschei didn't trust the other Time Lords to do that, so he ran and hid away. A small part of him wonders now if the drums, urging his flight instinct and fanning his fear, hadn't actually _meant_ for him to do it, so that he could get Gallifrey out of the time lock after, but the bigger part of Koschei's mind pushes it away. 

Now is not the time. One way or another, it happened. The Time War is over, Daleks and Time Lords are gone, and Koschei is here with the very last Daleks, after the Doctor got rid of all the rest. 

If he's going to do one thing, _just one thing,_ with this life he has been gifted, it will be to avenge Gallifrey, to avenge his people—all of them, even those he didn't care for, because _no one_ deserves death at the hands of the Daleks, swift as it may be—and to avenge himself and the Doctor. After all, if the Daleks hadn't declared war on the universe, if they had _never_ existed, Rassilon wouldn't have been brought back, wouldn't have put the drums in his head, and wouldn't have forced the Master into trying to get Gallifrey out of the time lock, which ended in the Doctor's death. 

His hands tingle with anticipation, and he forces himself to pocket them to stop himself from doing anything drastic, curling one around his screwdriver and thumbing the laser function on. 

Koschei _will_ destroy the Daleks, but he needs to learn what they're planning first, needs to stop that and make sure this is _the end._ No more Daleks, _ever again. _

There's only one gliding around Bracewell's laboratory, carrying parts and papers to wherever it is told, working as an errand boy for the other scientists milling around. 

Koschei snarls, time feelers bristling with artron static, before he reins himself in and leans against the table the human 'inventor' is working on. 

“Professor! Oh, it is so good to see you again. How are you feeling? Miss Pond assured us you were taking some rest—” Bracewell babbles with a _smile,_ of all things, and Koschei silences him with a single dark glare that is _not_ hypnotic, he's not that far gone yet. 

If he doesn't get what he wants, though, that'll change _fast,_ Rules be damned. 

“So, you invented the Ironsides, Professor Bracewell? Tell me, what gave you the idea?” Koschei asks as calmly and nonchalantly as he can, but both Bracewell's and Amy's uneasiness are proof that he's failing. 

He doesn't care. He's here for answers and Dalek blood, not to play nice with the bumbling primitive fools that are this backwards planet's dominant race. 

“Ah, well, you see, it was nothing specific really. I just get a lot of funny ideas, sometimes in the strangest of places. See these designs? I got them while in the bath! Imagine gravity bubbles that could—” he answers, his excitement overpowering his wariness, reaching for more blueprints and papers that Koschei thinks might be about hypersonic flight and life support in the vacuum, but which he slams his hand on without a second thought, cutting the human's rant and making him jump. 

“Not interested,” he purrs with a large and sharp grin that makes Bracewell lean back with a nervous gulp. “I'm more curious about the whole 'Ironside' thing, you see. Who came up with it? You or them?” he asks, jerking his head to where the Dalek is clearing a workbench, completely unbothered by anything going on around it. 

“Them?” Bracewell repeats, startled, and turns for a moment to see what Koschei gestured at before facing him once more with a reassuring smile. “Oh, no, nothing like that. They are mere robots. Clever ones, I will admit, but they are fully under my command,” he explains, turning towards the door, and, this time, it is Koschei who follows his gaze and tenses. 

A second Dalek, gliding inside calmly, carrying a small tray with a single cup of steaming tea on it. 

“Thank you,” Bracewell tells it with a smile as the Dalek stops in front of them, taking the cup. “See? They are the perfect servants, and the perfect warriors.” 

“Servants,” Koschei repeats blankly, trying to process the image of a Dalek standing next to a human with a tea tray on its manipulator arm, before snorting and doubling over, laughing so hard that his midsection hurts. “Servants! The mighty Dalek race, the biggest threat in the universe, _servants!”_ he cackles, grabbing onto the table for the couple seconds it takes him to get his breath back and straighten with a new snarl. “What did they promise you.” 

It's not a question, it's an order. Judging by his flinch, Bracewell correctly interprets it as such. 

“What? N-No, you've got it all wrong, Professor. They're my creations, they're—” 

“Do _not_ call me Professor, you addlebrained primitive _idiot,”_ he hisses, and Bracewell tenses and shivers under his piercing glare. “Whatever they said, however they convinced you, they are _not_ servants. But you are right, they _are_ warriors. They are _death.” _

“Exactly! Death to the Nazi menace,” Churchill exclaims, entering the laboratory and gesturing for the other scientists to leave with a wave of a hand. “And that is exactly what we need.” 

Theta is not here, probably to avoid distracting Koschei in such a delicate situation as is any kind of dealings with Daleks, but Koschei most definitely could use his help right now. The hand around the screwdriver clenches tighter, and it is only because of Amy's worried and expectant look that Koschei manages to stop himself from putting the imbeciles out of their misery. 

“First the Nazis, then the rest of the planet, and next the universe! Mark my words, Prime Minister, if hatred ever had a face, it would be this one!” he shouts instead, gesturing towards the Dalek still by Bracewell's side, which makes his skin crawl. 

That gunstick is too close for comfort, and it isn't even aiming at him yet! 

Only, instead of Churchill retorting with some irrelevant nonsense about Nazis, or Bracewell once more jumping to the defense of the 'Ironsides', it is the Dalek itself which acts. 

It glides closer, turning to actually face Koschei— 

“Would you care for some tea?” 

Koschei slams the tea tray off of the manipulator arm, the momentum knocking it into the gunstick, which makes the weapon twitch away from his midsection even as Koschei twists so that it isn't aiming at him anymore. 

“_Stop that!”_ he roars, almost getting into the Dalek's eyestalk, conscious enough not to touch it or angle himself in range of its manipulator arm, and the Dalek glides back and away from him. “The only thing I care about is your dead carcasses burning to nothing! What in Omega's cursed name are you planning?!” 

“We seek only to help you,” the Dalek answers calmly, and Koschei has to stop any and all motion, breathing included, so he can focus on dulling the sound of his heartsbeat filling his head, reminding himself that it is _not_ the drums. 

He lets out a breath in a rush, dropping any and all expression in favor of a deadly glare in the Daleks' direction, both of them standing next to each other now. 

“Then _die,”_ he hisses threateningly, his hand increasing the charge of his screwdriver so that it whines loudly, unbothered by the fact he doesn't remember taking it out of his pocket. 

“I do not understand. We seek only to help you win the war,” the Dalek tells him calmly, as if it truly was a machine, and Koschei chuckles. 

Low, rumbling, coming from the back of his throat much like a growl would if he wasn't trying so hard to keep it at bay. 

“Oh, business as usual then? Let us destroy all lifeforms that are not Dalek, starting with the Nazis and Earth. But why this planet, why this time? You may be unknown in this time period, but surely, they don't have the resources you need. Even with an idiot to get you in Churchill's own Cabinet Rooms, you have _nothing._ Then again, the only thing you ever need is _death,_ so, in that sense, you are in the right place,” he hums, still completely immobile, though alert to the slightest buildup of energy that could hint at a Dalek charging its weapon. 

“Doctor, this is nonsense! Whatever monster you are after this time, the Ironsides are not it. They were created by Bracewell, for God's sake. Miss Pond delivered the schematics, didn't she?” Churchill huffs indignantly, walking up to him while gesturing between the Daleks, Bracewell and Amy. 

“They're fake,” Koschei hisses, and sees Bracewell puff up in indignation. 

“Fake? I drew them myself,” he protests in a mixture of hurt and maybe even a bit of disappointment, but Koschei doesn't care, never looking away from the Daleks. 

“Come to your senses, Doctor. The Ironsides are a blessing! All the people suffering under the Nazis, my country could be saved. They are precisely what we need.” 

“The Daleks are a _curse!_ All of _my_ people suffered under them, my world _died_ because of them! First Gallifrey, then the universe, that was their plan. And it was their downfall. They were destroyed alongside the Time Lords. The two greatest races in the universe, _gone._ And I will make sure it _stays that way,”_ he seethes, his tightly-clenched fists shaking at his sides even as he bristles, the lights flickering in answer. 

Koschei sees Churchill's gaze move between him and the Ironsides, stock still by his side and retracting the hand that had been reaching for his shoulder. Amy, standing next to the closest column, covers her mouth, never looking away from him, and, even from the corner of his eye, Koschei can see she's holding back tears. Bracewell is outright gawking, head shaking softly in clear denial, though he's also grown quite pale. 

“B-But they are not. I made them. I… I am so sorry they remind you of these – these Dah-lek people, but they are not, you must believe me! They are my Ironsides,” Bracewell tries to explain, subdued and starting to verge on desperate despite the undertone of confusion. 

“I am your soldier,” the Dalek adds to Bracewell's words, and Koschei lets his shoulders slump with a sigh before straightening. 

Only one option left, then. 

“My soldier, huh? Very well,” he answers pleasantly with a nod – and presses the charged screwdriver against Churchill's forehead. “Do your duty, _soldier,”_ he orders with a grin so sharp that it makes his cheeks hurt, eyes never leaving the immobile Daleks despite how Bracewell recoils and Amy stops herself from stepping closer. 

“Prime Minister!” 

“Doctor, _no!” _

But Koschei doesn't shoot, just stands there, in a room that seems time-stopped with how still everyone is holding themselves, and stares at the Daleks. 

“Don't you see? They're not shooting. I'm holding the Prime Minister, their supreme commander, at gunpoint—laser-point, actually—and they haven't even twitched in his defense. The Ironsides are prime killing machines whose only aim is to serve the United Kingdom by eliminating its enemies. They could shoot me dead before I could activate the screwdriver, but they haven't. Which means they _aren't Ironsides,”_ he explains, grin widening as a bubble of laughter brews in his chest, triumph and expectation fueling it alongside anticipation. “Well, _soldier?_ An Ironside would kill me to protect the Prime Minister, but a Dalek… Oh, a Dalek would have shot me on that rooftop. Which means you need me _alive,_ even at the cost of dear Winston Churchill's life. So, what will it be? Will you tell me your plan so we can get back to me destroying you? Or do I need to kill all of the Cabinet Rooms to make you talk?” he asks, taunting, and ignores the gasps from the humans. 

“No! Doctor, you can't! If you kill Churchill, the war—” 

“Time is in flux, Amelia,” Koschei cuts, and sees her fidget from the corner of his eye, still focused on the immobile Daleks. “I can do _whatever I please._ The things that have to happen will happen, and, everything else? Everything else can _burn._ After all, it's what will happen if the Daleks get what they want, so why should I worry? I can always play Winston's part if it comes to it, or just let the future move in a different direction. Who cares? As long as the Daleks lose, _I win,”_ he explains, smirk widening, and presses the screwdriver tighter against Churchill's forehead when the man starts sputtering indignantly. “And if they _do_ kill me, then I have nothing to worry about! That'll mean they're Ironsides, soldiers of the British people, not Daleks, the biggest genocidal bastards of the galaxy. So, what if the war goes on a different path? No Daleks, no worries,” he adds, tilting his head up almost triumphantly, because _he knows._ “Well, _Ironsides?_ What will it be?” 

“Desist. You are an ally of the Prime Minister. I am your soldier,” the Dalek answers, still immobile, though Koschei is more than aware of its gunstick aiming at him. 

“Alright,” he whispers, dropping his smirk and taking a deep breath as he adjusts his grip on the screwdriver— “_Exterminate!” _

The Dalek shoots. 

It burns. It burns so hotly that it erases the world, sight gone white and ears filled with the echo of the shot and his whole self ablaze and numb to anything but the pain and _it burns— _

There's the muted sound of shouting, of a body hitting the ground, of something metallic clanking to the floor and rolling away with a whine of dissipating charge. 

Koschei lets out a pained shout with his next breath, limbs shaking clumsily as he tries to find the origin of the pain and _rip it out,_ but there are hands on him, forcing him to his back as a voice keeps shouting for the Doctor to wake up and stay with them. 

But the Doctor is dead, he died in Koschei's arms two days, twenty-three hours, fifty-nine minutes and fifty-seven seconds ago. The Master killed him, by setting the nuclear bolt's power to the maximum, by following the mad scheme, by listening to the drums— 

The drums Rassilon implanted in his head, which the High Council used to manipulate him, his whole life, so they would be able to bring Gallifrey out of the time lock before it was destroyed in the Time War, at the cost of the Master's and the Doctor's lives. 

The Time War against _the Daleks. _

_Dun-dun. Dun-dun. Dun-dun. _

Not the drums, not anymore, not ever again. Just his heartsbeat – his _heartbeat,_ singular, because he tried to expose the Daleks, to get their plan out of them, by threatening Churchill, and got himself _shot. _

_In retrospect, it was a stupid plan,_ a voice that sounds like Theta's hums at the back of his mind. 

_They weren't supposed to shoot!_ Koschei whines mentally before pushing the voice away. 

He'd been sure they wouldn't shoot, he wouldn't have suggested it otherwise! It was _obvious_ they were Daleks, humans are just too blind to know danger when they see it. And, since they hadn't shot him when they first met, _of course_ it was because they needed something. 

So. What changed? 

With a groan, Koschei focuses on the pain, on the hands on his face and neck, on the worried pleas echoing over his head, and opens his eyes. 

Amelia, Amy, hovering over him with eyes full of tears, smiles brightly yet tremulously when their gazes meet. 

"Doctor! Oh my God, you're alright!" 

_Not the Doctor,_ he wants to say, but ends up grunting instead as the pain flares when he tries to sit up. 

One heart out of commission, one kidney and a third of his lungs gone with it, while one of his livers is ablaze but still somewhat functional. He redirects all biological functions away from it, and that cuts down the pain level significantly. The bones from that side of his torso are brittle now, their outer coating gnawed away by the energy of the shot, while the muscular fibers keep trying to spasm, and snap when he can't stop them. He takes another deep breath to center himself and finally redirects the leftover energy through his dimensions, gasping in pain at the burning sensation but exhaling tremulously in relief when it's spread so thin to be only an uncomfortable tickling. 

Injured, yes, to the extent that he'll need to visit the TARDIS' med bay on top of getting some rest. But he can still function, can still move, and, more importantly, _he's still alive. _

That was most definitely a Dalek energy blast, the effects it has wrecked on his body are consistent with it and what he remembers from his own execution on Skaro—he chalks his next whimper and shiver to the current injury instead of the memory, but quickly pushes it away anyway—but it was most definitely _not_ at full power, or he would be dead right now. 

Koschei got shot by a Dalek. Koschei is still alive, if injured. Conclusion? The Daleks _do_ want him alive, and have incapacitated him to keep him from doing anything crazy _again. _

Well, joke's on them, because Koschei is most definitely crazy, and determined enough _not_ to play by their rules. 

Breathing as deeply as he dares, Koschei opens his eyes again and, with Amy's relieved and worried help, sits up successfully this time, squeezing her shoulder when she seems unable to stop shaking. 

“The threat has been neutralized,” the one talkative Dalek is telling a beet-red Churchill, while Bracewell leans heavily against his workbench, head between his hands, and tries not to hyperventilate. 

“The threat? That was the Doctor! An ally, a _friend!” _

“The threat has been neutralized,” the Dalek repeats, its head swiveling so that its eyestalk lands on Koschei's snarl. 

“That's what _you_ think,” he spits, attracting both Churchill's and Bracewell's attention, as he reaches for the table to pull himself to his feet—and almost falls on his face if not for Amy catching him when his weak grip doesn't manage to support his weight. “Omega's holy hands, they couldn't have fried my kidneys instead, could they? They had to get the heart,” he hisses with his next breath, adjusting the production of adrenaline to make up for the loss of one heart, and so manages to finally stand up, leaning heavily on Amy for a moment as he clears his dizziness away. 

“Your _heart?_ What do you mean they fried _your heart?!”_ Amy shouts in horror, gripping him tighter as she runs a hand over the ruined waistcoat. 

“_One_ of my hearts. Quit panicking, I have two of them,” he scoffs, ripping Amy's hand off his injured side with maybe a bit more force than necessary, but the last thing he wants is for her to irritate the burns any more than the damaged clothes and his moving are already doing. 

“I do not understand. The threat had been neutralized,” the Dalek speaks up with even less emotion than the usual Ironside tone, and Koschei bristles and steps out of Amy's hold, blood boiling and single heart beating frantically to make up for the loss of the second. 

“Oh, as if you hadn't _meant_ to do that,” he snarls, looking around for his screwdriver when he finds it isn't in his pocket anymore. 

“Doctor! You're alive!” Bracewell exclaims, _relieved_ and _overjoyed,_ and _that's it. _

Koschei flares as much as he can without actually driving everyone insane, and the light directly over him explodes into a thin rain of sparkling glass while the rest flicker madly. 

“I am _not_ the Doctor!” he shouts in time with the show, and Bracewell actually falls down as he backpedals away, tripping on the fallen sonic screwdriver. “Not the Doctor or the Professor or the Master or the Captain or _anyone!”_ he adds, glaring at Churchill when the man makes to step towards him, and feels Amy recoil. “I am the Nameless, the Madman, the _Diseased!_ I am the one who had the power to save Gallifrey and _condemned it instead._ I have more blood on my hands than numbers your pitiful race will ever reach. I have destroyed whole galaxies in a breath, rewritten the universe, and shackled _time._ I am the last of the Time Lords and you are the last of the Daleks. And I. Will. _End you,”_ he hisses, making sure his words, his rage, his _promise_ echoes throughout all his dimensions, reaches every single cell of the primitive brains of his audience. 

He pulls on the timelines, synchronizing the flickering lights so that they all blink off in unison with his last words before releasing them into a more chaotic pattern, as a show of strength. The threat has _not_ been neutralized, he is still as capable as ever of manipulating coincidences to his will, and can do so much worse. It helps that it also delivers the message to the non-time-sensitive humans, the darkness timed with his words playing with their minds to further enhance their impression of him as _dangerous._ They never connect these kind of 'coincidences', never realize it is the Time Lord's own actions making them look 'inspiring' or 'fearsome' or whatever, but their hindbrains, the part that actually has some leftovers from their most basal animal instincts, _does_ put them together, leaving them more or less wary at times. Pitiful, really, for a species to not even understand their own brains anymore. 

The Daleks, however, _do_ understand, and so they don't move, completely still like a mouse in front of a cat, knowing that if they do so much as twitch he will _pounce,_ screwdriver or not. 

True, he won't have much of a chance against a fully functional Dalek, injured and unarmed as he is, but he is far from _harmless._ And the Daleks, any and all Daleks, know it. 

Unlike Amy and all other humans that have ever dealt with a Time Lord seem to believe, they are _not_ called that simply because they can travel through time. That came after. 

The Daleks knew it better than anyone, which is why they targeted Gallifrey first and foremost, even when they had the power to take over most of the universe at the time. 

“Correct,” the Dalek finally answers, the compliant tone from the Ironside completely gone, and Koschei stills. 

Correct? Correct what? That Koschei will destroy them? Daleks aren't suicidal, so _what is that supposed to mean? _

“What?” 

“Review testimony,” it tells the other Dalek, turning to face it and completely ignoring Koschei, whose anger is quickly being replaced by dread. 

“… _What?” _

“I am the last of the Time Lords and you are the last of the Daleks,” the second Dalek plays with Koschei's voice, a recording of his previous declaration. 

Koschei's remaining heart skips a beat, which leaves him wobbling like a sapling in a storm, Amy quickly rushing to his side to grab his arm, and he feels his face go pale in a reaction that is not directly related to the internal bleeding caused by the shot. 

“What do you need that for?” he asks, voice soft and tremulous as he tenses and takes a step back, something the humans quickly mimic. 

“Transmitting testimony… Testimony accepted,” the second Dalek announces, and only then do the two of them turn to face them once more. 

“_Down!”_ Koschei orders even as he throws himself to his screwdriver, pushing Amy into Churchill so the two of them fall to the ground. 

If Amy had fallen with Koschei, Churchill would have been exterminated instead, and things are getting crazy enough for Koschei to allow that. 

Bracewell, still on the floor from where he tripped on the screwdriver, scurries away as Koschei falls by his side, ignoring the blazing pain at the impact as he takes his sonic and rolls behind a bench. 

Amy and Churchill, still in plain sight, are quickly hidden behind the marines that were waiting just inside the room. Seeing how they weren't there before, Koschei assumes it was his getting shot that brought them in, but that's not important now. The Daleks exterminate them before they can do more than aim their weapons in their general direction. 

“So, you finally reveal yourselves! What changed? What was that testimony?!” Koschei shouts, fiddling with the settings of his screwdriver and peeking from behind the bench to aim at the lamp atop the Daleks. 

If he can drop it on them, it will create enough of a distraction for Amy and Churchill to get out of the line of fire. And then, Koschei can try to use the environment, all the tools and hiding places, to try to damage the eyestalks and find some way to do _something._ Maybe Bracewell has some gunsticks lying around? 

“We are the Daleks. And the testimony is our victory!” the first Dalek answers, while the second chants 'victory' over and over, before the two of them vanish with the telltale flash of white from a teleport. 

The lamp falls to the ground with a crash that is almost too loud in the silence, making Amy, Churchill and Bracewell flinch. 

Koschei takes in a couple of gasping breaths, swallows a mouthful of warm blood, and punches through the bench with a roar as he stands up. 

“They _used me!_ They used me, again! First Rassilon, then the humans, and now the _bloody Daleks!”_ he shouts, grabbing the closest item, some kind of wrench, and throwing it into a wall covered with Ironside schematics. “Oh no, you don't. You may have used me to get what you wanted, but you will _not_ get away with it. The Time War ends _today,”_ he hisses at the blueprints and, without sparing a look or a thought to anyone else, takes off running towards the TARDIS. 

“Doctor, wait, you're hurt!” Amy shouts, but her voice cuts as he slams the door shut behind him, rushing to the controls and swallowing another glob of blood. 

This time, the TARDIS accepts the commands on the first try, taking off _still_ with all of its noisy grace, but swiftly as it lets him disengage the brakes. Koschei doesn't care much for the silent mode, a TARDIS' wheezing is as much a warning as anything else, but a part of him is genuinely grateful for the swift takeoff. Just because he can function with his injuries doesn't mean he fancies all the bumping around. There'll be more than enough of that where he's going. 

A beep tells him that the scanners have picked up the Dalek ship, so he rushes around the console, adjusting the coordinates – and stops. 

“What do we have here?” he muses to himself, analyzing a panel hidden under the stabilizers, which the TARDIS has just slid out. “That's not standard of a Type—oh! Oh, you royal pain in the ass, that is _genius,”_ he chuckles, looking over the panel that, while not original of any TARDIS he knows of, has been aboard long enough to become fully integrated with the systems. “A tribophysical waveform macro-kinetic extrapolator, arranged to function both as a forcefield and as an emergency spatiotemporal jump. You must have had that since before Malcassairo, for it to be integrated already, redecoration or not. And you hid it from me! Oh, if I had had this in my hands, no one would have got to my paradox machine,” he chuckles even as he fiddles with the extrapolator, earning himself a zap that makes him wince. “Hey, it was a compliment! You know how thorough I was, and yet you managed to hide this. So, here I am, complimenting you, and what do I get? A zap! Skaro ablaze, you are a tough one to please,” he grumbles, but at least the extrapolator synchs with the rest of the systems without issue. “Good, there we go. Plan B ready. Now, let's get to plan A.” 

And he locks onto the Dalek ship, lacking any kind of teleportation barrier, and materializes the TARDIS inside. 

The extrapolator hums to activation as soon as he locks the engines, ready to spring to action when he gives the order, but there's something else Koschei needs to do first. 

Without looking back, without a moment of hesitation, he walks to the door, opens it, and steps outside. 

The room is as spacious as expected of a Dalek ship, open plan space with the controls split into three consoles to allow for mobility and the ability to operate different systems without getting in each other's way. It seems to be some sort of med bay—_Dalek med bay, right, and Rassilon's a hugger—_or, rather, a laboratory, judging by Koschei's memories of their ships and the large chamber against a wall, in a far better state than the rest of the vessel. 

Three Daleks are standing in front of the chamber, two of them the Ironsides while the third is a golden one without any sort of 'disguise'. They are the only ones in the room and, according to the lack of noise from the corridors and their even worse condition, the only ones on the ship. 

Like every other occasion the Doctor came across Daleks since the end of the Time War, then. Mere survivors trying to either contact other Daleks or to bring back the Dalek race. 

All three of them are looking in his direction, but it is only when he emerges, nonchalant and unbothered, folding his hands behind his back after locking the door, that they swivel to aim at him. 

“You didn't answer my question,” he tells them, channeling all of the calm and confidence that served the Master so well when he had that unfortunate run-in with the Daleks, all the way back in the twenty-sixth century, which ended with the Master allying with them to get rid of the human and Draconian empires. 

He hadn't intended to start a war, too messy an affair, but once the Daleks got involved, it would have been a very short war indeed. So, he only needed to stir some trouble, let the pathetic creatures rile each other up and battle it out, and ensure he would be able to hold onto the Doctor and Earth. After that, with both of them together, they would get rid of the Daleks, and the Master would put the Doctor back in his pretty little box and rule the galaxy from his comfy throne on Earth. 

… It didn't end _that_ well, true, but it had been a solid plan. Shame the Daleks hadn't cared about that when they finally caught up to him and punished him for his failure, but he'd got out of that one as well, if bodiless. The Master always got out of trouble. 

And Koschei is not about to start failing now. 

“It is the Doctor.” 

“Exterminate! Exterminate! Exterminate!” 

Koschei takes a deep breath in through the nose and channels all his irritation—and something that feels almost like grief or guilt or both—at being called the Doctor—_again,_ by _Daleks—_into a slightly amused smile. 

The Daleks shoot – and the energy simply dissipates into white flashes as it collides against the invisible forcefield from the extrapolator. 

“Is that it?” he asks conversationally when they stop shooting, all three of them twitching in what he's pretty sure would be unease in any other species, but that, in a Dalek, can only be fear. “Useless,” he comments carelessly, stepping further into the room, away from the TARDIS and out of the limits of the extrapolator. 

They don't know that, though, and he's not planning to let them know. His coordinates were good enough to get him into the room, but the closest console is just out of the extrapolator's bubble. Still, it doesn't matter. His little show has done enough to ensure he won't be shot at again anytime soon, and the Daleks don't know about the extrapolator. And, seeing how badly damaged the ship is, they won't risk wasting resources in a fruitless endeavor such as shooting a protected enemy. 

As for the whole 'Doctor' business… Well, it won't be the weirdest disguise Koschei has ever put on. Besides, as much as the Time War Daleks learnt to fear the Master, if these ones are from _after_ the Time War, they will fear the Doctor more. 

The Emperor managed to create a new fleet of Daleks, even if all of them were insane. The Cult of Skaro brought some from the Time War with the Genesis Ark, and almost created a new race of Dalek-humans, before the Doctor meddled. Davros _did_ create a whole race, a new Dalek Empire, from his own body. 

But the Bad Wolf had divided the whole of the Dalek fleet, in the year 200,100, and this is 1941, so these Daleks can't be survivors of that. The four of the Cult of Skaro were all accounted for, three in Manhattan and one at the Medusa Cascade, and their new Daleks had been created out of human corpses, so not those either. The Genesis Ark had contained only Daleks, not ships, and this one isn't newly made, so that discards it too, besides the fact they appeared in 2007 and were sucked back into the Void. So, that either leaves the Time War or the Medusa Cascade. 

A Dalek ship can carry more than two thousand Daleks at a time. For an average Dalek battle cruiser such as this one to have survived the Time War, it must have been far back in their lines, further from Gallifrey, and so with most of its crew still onboard. However, seeing how there are only three Daleks here now, Koschei leans more towards them being some of Davros' new Daleks rather than survivors of the Time War. 

Regardless of where these Daleks are from, they all know Daleks and Time Lords alike were destroyed with Gallifrey, they know the only surviving Time Lord is the Doctor. It doesn’t help that the humans have the bad habit of calling _Koschei_ Doctor, or that, even if they didn’t, no one knows he’s actually the Master. 

Koschei won't be the one to tell them they're wrong, he doesn't fancy getting shot _again._ One rage-fueled mistake per adventure, thank you very much. 

“If you are done being rude hosts, maybe you'll answer my question now?” he asks after a glance at the screen reveals only maintenance data, confirming his suspicion of most of the ship being dead or offline. “What was that testimony for?” 

“The Doctor will withdraw or the city will die in flames,” Goldie threatens, and Koschei gives them his best disappointed frown. 

“The Daleks will answer my question or _their ship_ will go up in flames,” he retorts, taking his screwdriver out of his pocket and activating it. 

It immediately synchs with the extrapolator and the TARDIS, and the blue box rumbles as the light atop it glows softly. 

The Daleks swivel to it, observing for a moment, before turning back to Koschei in unison. This time, Koschei grins sharply. 

“I'm calling your bluff. Your ship is wrecked, running on empty, with just you three left, and not a single one of you can touch me. London stays as is. So, it's your turn. Are you calling _my_ bluff or answering my question?” 

One of the Ironsides glides forward and Koschei immediately turns up the power a notch, the light and sound from the TARDIS increasing. The Dalek stops, but it is Goldie who talks. 

“You would not use such a device. You would not destroy yourself and your TARDIS just to destroy us.” 

“What do I have to lose?” he asks them with more sincerity than he's comfortable with, but after a moment, the Ironside glides back to its previous position, far enough that Koschei is not in their scan range. 

He _will_ blow up the TARDIS if necessary, now that he has confirmed this lone ship with its three Daleks is all there is. But if they were to find out he's out of the extrapolator's force field, they would have a chance at exterminating him before he can send the order. 

Out of the question. 

Besides, he'd rather figure out why they're here, what the testimony is for, and get out of this mess with his life. He still owes Amy one trip and a flight back to her own time, after all, even if he's sure Churchill would take good care of her were she to become stranded here. 

“One ship survived,” Goldie starts, voice gravelly, and, despite it not being a direct answer to his question, Koschei decides to let it talk, giving it a small jerk of his chin when it goes quiet. “We fell through time. Crippled. Dying,” it adds, and the other two twitch, likely in rage, but Koschei makes sure to still them with a glare, just in case they get any ideas about trying to shoot again. “And then, we picked up a trace. One of the Progenitor devices.” 

For the first time since he stepped out of the TARDIS, Koschei gives the chamber behind the Daleks a closer look. And there, suspended in the middle and with colorful lights flashing in a constant pattern, is the Progenitor device, vaguely egg-shaped—Thals and Kaleds both were oviparous, weren't they?—and obviously operational, judging by the increasing speed of the blinks. 

Koschei has to force himself to take another breath when everything finally clicks into a frankly terrifying picture. 

“The Progenitor, the origin or model of something. That thing contains Dalek DNA, doesn't it? But why would you need a testimony—Oh,” he whispers to himself and doesn't bother containing his laughter at the realization of what _that_ had been about. “Oh, I love it! The irony! You couldn't use it!” he exclaims with a large gleeful grin, and the way the Daleks twitch but don't protest is more than confirmation enough. “_Hah!_ It didn't recognize you, you are impure. You are a mockery of true Daleks. You are _Ironsides!_ You were _really_ kowtowing to the humans, you _needed_ them!” he cackles, bending in half as his damaged lungs leave him wheezing for air and hurting all over, but there's no way in Skaro's radioactive flares that he won't have this last laugh. 

“Enough. Enough! _Enough!”_ Goldie orders, shaking once more and gliding forwards— 

Koschei's laughter cuts instantly as he straightens once more, no sign of mirth on his serious face and no trembling as he lifts his still active screwdriver. 

Goldie stops as if it'd just slammed into an invisible wall, before, still twitching slightly, returning to its spot. 

“There you go. Good boy,” Koschei taunts, his grin dark this time, before he drops it in favor of the situation at hand. “The Progenitor wouldn't work for you, so you rigged this whole testimony thing. If an enemy of the Daleks, a Time Lord, recognized you as such, surely the Progenitor would accept it as valid and activate for you. That's why you offered your 'services' to Churchill, to lure me here and obtain that testimony.” 

“Extinction is not an option. We shall return to our own time and begin again,” Goldie proclaims, while one of the Ironsides twitches— 

_“Actually, the most impressive thing about you is that after all this time, you're still bone dead stupid. You've got six billion pairs of eyes, but you still can't see the obvious, can you?” _

That Dalek wasn't there before, not so close to that console. The three of them were standing next to each other, side by side— 

_“The Doctor will withdraw or the city will die in flames.” _

“What did you do,” Koschei snarls, flaring just enough that the damaged and unshielded Dalek console behind him sputters some sparks. “Answer me!” 

“Our ship may not be able to destroy the humans, but they can destroy themselves. All of the generators in the human city have been activated. The city is exposed to the oncoming enemies.” 

The lights. All the lights in London have been turned on, and, after a quick sniff, Koschei tenses. All the lights on, _at nighttime,_ with Nazi bombers approaching. 

“Stalemate, Doctor. Leave us and return to Earth,” the talkative Ironside adds, almost smug. 

Koschei laughs. A bark of laughter and a sharp smirk, but it's enough to still all three Daleks. 

“Stalemate? I don't think so,” he answers almost casually – and increases the power of the screwdriver, the TARDIS' hum and light growing stronger. “_You_ are sending that signal. If I blow up this ship, the signal goes offline. No more lights, no more Progenitor. As far as I see it, _I win.” _

“Desist,” Goldie orders, twitching once more, but Koschei's smirk only grows larger and sharper, his thumb sliding just the tiniest bit more to increase the signal— “Desist, desist, desist!” 

“_Bye.” _

“Terminate the signal! Terminate, terminate, _terminate!”_ Goldie orders hurriedly, going as far as to swivel and shoot next to the Ironside's base when it doesn't rush to the console fast enough. 

A twist of a knot and the Ironside quickly glides away from the controls and next to the other two. 

“The signal has been terminated. You no longer have a reason to activate the TARDIS self-destruct,” the Ironside tells him, but Koschei makes a show of slowly stepping back until he's close enough to the console to check. 

And, as told, he sees that the signal that was being emitted has been cancelled, and the rush of energy from 'target: London' has gone back to the low thrum of nighttime activity previously registered by the ship's sensors. 

“Oh, I wouldn't say that. But you've earned a couple more minutes,” he finally answers, dialing down his own signal so that the TARDIS returns to her previous display. “Now, let's get back to the topic _without_ any more amateur attempts at backstabbing, shall we?” he asks with a mocking smirk, but other than some irritated twitches, the Daleks remain silent. “What makes you think I'm going to let you just fly away and rebuild your race? Other than that pathetic display just now, that is.” 

They obviously have no answer to that, just standing there, with the two Ironsides turning to Goldie as if expecting it to have a solution. 

Koschei snorts once more, though, this time, it isn't just in amusement. He could try to reprogram one of the consoles, to overload the system and blow the ship up while he rushes away in the TARDIS. However, the moment he tries it, the Daleks will shoot again, no matter how futile their previous efforts had been. 

He could go back to the TARDIS, to the extrapolator's force field, but the Dalek ship is still protected, regardless of the damage. He doubts he'd be able to do anything through the TARDIS, and he has no weapons there he could use instead to destroy the Daleks. 

So, one way or another, it turns out the Daleks were right. Stalemate. Koschei can't blow them up without going out with them. 

The TARDIS self-destruct is the only thing powerful and fast enough to destroy this ship. With the emergency spatiotemporal jump he programmed in the extrapolator, the TARDIS and the ship she's in will be sent to the black hole at the center of the galaxy a second before the explosion, while the TARDIS herself, her soul, will be released back to the Time Vortex with the destruction of the Time Capsule. This way, the Earth and the Moon will go unaffected by the explosion, and everything will continue as it should. 

The Daleks and the Time Lords, destroyed in one last fiery boom. 

Ironic, _so_ ironic, but at the same time, so _fitting._ Koschei ran and hid amongst humans, like these Daleks did with the Ironsides and with their intention to run now to escape death. It is just punishment for failing their races, their purpose as members of them, that they die as the Dalek Empire and Gallifrey did. 

In flames. Together. 

Well, it is just as Koschei said, isn't it? 

What do they have to lose now? 

The door of the chamber slides closed, red energy rushing over it, just as Koschei makes his choice, and he barely stops himself before he can send the command. 

“What is going on?” he asks, but the Daleks are too excited to pay him attention anymore, whirling around and gliding away from the chamber and its door. 

“We have succeeded. DNA reconstruction is complete,” Goldie proclaims, and Koschei's remaining heart skips a beat, forcing him to take a step back to keep his balance. 

_Damned resolution! My adrenaline levels shouldn't have dropped just because I made my choice! _

But they did, and so Koschei is too busy raising them, regaining his balance and getting rid of the bout of dizziness brought by his sudden movement that he's unable to react before the door opens. The flickering lights and the bolts of energy all over the chamber don't help clear his head either. 

“Observe, Doctor, a new Dalek paradigm,” Goldie tells him as a thin layer of white smoke slithers out of the chamber, the white light inside finally fading— 

Or, rather, being blocked. 

The new Dalek is larger and sleeker, taller and more streamlined than Goldie and the Ironsides, yet somehow looking sharper than them as well. Probably due to its power levels, especially when compared with the other three. 

It is also an eye-watering white color, except for some black and silver accents, like the neck, spheres and weapons platform. 

And it's not alone. 

A blue one joins it not a second later, followed by an orange, a yellow and a red one. 

All their eyestalks have amber lights with a blue horizontal 'pupil', somehow giving them a more organic yet also robotic look at the same time. 

Koschei can only wonder what these ones, these _pure Daleks,_ are capable of… and dreads finding the answer. 

“The Progenitor has fulfilled our new destiny,” the chatty Ironside says as it glides a bit closer to the 'Paradigms', almost like a child in awe at a parade. “Behold, the restoration of the Daleks. The resurrection of the master race.” 

“One, _that_ is most definitely not the Master race. Two, I'm going to throw up. And three, I hate karma,” Koschei lets out before he can stop himself, grimacing and feeling truly nauseous, though he can't say whether it's because of his injuries, the presence of the new Daleks and what that implies, or the comment about the 'master race'. 

… Definitely the last one. Fate loves to mess with him. He'd say it's because of something he did in a past life, but he's not sure he would be able to say that without breaking down laughing, so he decides to just drop that line of thought and focus on the issue at hand. 

Which, actually, isn't much of an issue at all. 

In fact, this is actually a blessing. The Progenitor has done its thing, there are now five tall eyesores of a Dalek—and why are his enemies always taller, that is _so_ not fair—alongside the three Ironside ones. But the ship is still a mess, and the TARDIS is ready to go. 

If Koschei ever needed a last push to activate the self-destruct, this would definitely be it. 

“Yes, you are inferior,” Whitey tells its fanboys, who had been chanting 'all hail the new Daleks' while Koschei put himself together, and the three smaller ones immediately agree. “Then prepare,” it adds in its even more robotic voice, receiving another agreement— “Cleanse the unclean. Total obliteration. Disintegrate.” 

And Koschei's mouth goes dry as the new Daleks shoot the old ones, truly disintegrating them with one blast. 

Alright, _now_ he has reason to blow up the ship. If they have this destructive power, way beyond the regular extermination, he really doesn't want to see what else they're hiding. Besides, even if they have a more powerful force field, _nothing_ can survive an exploding TARDIS _and_ being swallowed by a black hole afterwards. 

“You are the Doctor. You must be exterminated,” Whitey tells Koschei, its optic meeting his eyes, and the Time Lord bristles. 

The wrong name, _again._ Why does everyone assume that just because he's a Time Lord messing with things that means he's the Doctor? These are Daleks! Anyone with even the slightest sense of self-preservation— 

Anyone with even the slightest sense of self-preservation would be running the other way, actually… 

But these are Daleks. Running only means they shoot you in the back, and they obliterate all the planets you try to hide in—unless you’re just another Time Lord in the middle of a Time War, with the perfect disguise and using said Time War as cover—and Koschei doesn't care about collateral damage if it means he gets out of the mess alive. Everything ends eventually—being stranded at the end of the universe does give you that perspective, Lucy wasn't the only one to realize that. 

But things are different now. The Daleks are the reason for the mess that has been Koschei’s life. The drums, driving him insane, isolating him from family and friends and even home planet. The Time War, destroying everything Koschei had cared about, even if he’d forfeited it long before. The Doctor dying in his arms, trying to stop Koschei, who was guided by the drums which Rassilon had put in his head because Gallifrey was going to be destroyed by the Time War against _the Daleks. _

Koschei is alone now. No more Gallifrey. No more Prydonian Chapter or House Oakdown. No more Doctor. 

And it’s all the Daleks’ fault. 

So, a newly created Dalek that fancies itself superior, which has known no battle or war or Time War, dares think it can simply exterminate the last of the Time Lords and go on to rebuild the Dalek Empire? 

_“You are the Doctor. You must be exterminated.” _

Koschei smirks and lifts his screwdriver. 

“I will obey you.” 

It's _firenoiselight**pain**_ and Koschei falls back with a shout, immediately rushing towards the origin of the warmth reaching urgently for him, practically on all fours, stumbling a couple times to avoid _deathdeathdeath_ before he finally collapses on his side when _safeprotectedhome_ washes over him, curling around his bloody and burnt hand and wrist and taking in gasping breaths. 

A couple more zaps echo over his head, just far enough that he knows he's alright, but he still flinches and looks up. 

The Daleks, the new colorful ones, all of them aiming at Koschei and gliding closer to the edge of the force field. Koschei scrambles into a sitting position and pushes himself away from them until his back slams against the TARDIS, still singing at him though not as desperately as before. Apparently, she believes these new Daleks won't be able to break through the force field. Koschei swallows, tasting blood, and tries to calm down his frantic and hitching breaths, forcing down pain from his previous injuries and the new ones, but doesn't take his wide-eyed gaze off the white Dalek. 

“We are the paradigm of a new Dalek race,” it says as if that explains everything, which is confirmed when the blue one stops in its approach and the rest still as well. 

“Force field reached. It is programmed to repel Dalek signatures. Scanning for weaknesses,” Blue drones, yet there's not a sound coming from it, just the slightest twitches of its eyestalk to give an impression of scanning. 

No wonder Koschei hadn't realized they were onto him, that they knew he wasn't as protected as he had tried to make it seem. He's damn lucky they only destroyed his screwdriver instead of shooting him in the chest. 

“Scientist, Strategist, Drone, Eternal and the Supreme,” White 'introduces' them, and Koschei, breathing more regularly after he cuts all nervous communication from his damaged arm in an attempt to dull the pain, swallows once more before answering. 

“Which would be you. I expected Red over there to be the boss, you know. White is supposed to be for harmless and innocent,” he tries to needle, but humor is lost on Daleks, as expected. 

“Human ideals do not apply to Daleks.” 

“Who said I was talking about humans?” he adds in an attempt to buy some more time, finally putting himself together enough to push himself to his feet using the TARDIS as support. “Red is boss for Time Lords.” 

“Irrelevant. Time Lords are extinct.” 

Koschei's jaw clenches as he snarls, forcing himself to keep breathing as deeply as he's able without aggravating the internal damage. 

“So sure of my death, aren't you? Well, you should have paid better attention. Because I _am_ alive, and I _am_ a red one. See you in _Hell,”_ he hisses, and has the satisfaction to see the new Daleks twitch when he flares, before turning his back on them and entering the TARDIS. 

Koschei drops back against the door as soon as it locks behind him, gasping once, twice, before the adrenaline and the hatred kick in and he manages to straighten and walk up to the controls. 

“Sorry, old girl, but it looks like it's going to be plan B after all. Let's make them pay for Gallifrey, shall we?” he tells the TARDIS softly, maneuvering the levers to trigger the manual self-destruct, and the song enveloping him grows stronger and warmer while the controls shift smoother than ever before. 

“Cancel the self-destruct, Doctor,” the white Dalek orders, and Koschei startles, bristling, before he realizes it sounds so clear because the TARDIS is projecting the visual from outside on one of the large roundels framing the door. “Cancel the self-destruct or we will destroy the Earth.” 

“With what? Are you going to turn all the lights on the whole planet on and have them burn through their fossil fuel reserves before time? That's hardly going to cut it, you spray-painted peppershaker,” Koschei scoffs, snarling at the image but not returning to the controls, dread twisting around the ball of burning hatred that is his current source of strength. 

He won’t underestimate these Paradigm Daleks again, no matter how little time alive they have left. Blowing up his screwdriver in his hand was enough of a lesson. 

“Bracewell is a bomb.” 

And Koschei stops breathing. 

White, however, doesn't even seem to notice—which makes sense, seeing how Koschei is in the TARDIS and it is outside—or doesn't care, if it has even noticed the almost silent gasp. 

“To obtain the testimony, the inferior Daleks created an android that would allow them to infiltrate the government and call forth the Doctor. His power is derived from an Oblivium Continuum. Cancel the self-destruct, or we will detonate the android.” 

“You're bluffing,” Koschei manages to choke out, but he knows they aren't. 

Daleks don't trust anyone, after all, especially not humans. _He_ knows that better than anyone. They might use other species, but don't trust. And for something as important as activating the Progenitor device, they wouldn't have risked having a human in the know about their origins. No, the Daleks would rather use what little resources they had available to build an android than conserve them but risk losing this chance. 

“Then we will shatter the planet below. The Earth will die screaming,” White answers, and, behind it, Koschei can see Orange messing with one of the computers. 

“No. No, you _don't._ I won't let you get away this time! I won't let you _live_ while everyone I ever cared about _died!_ You won't _win!”_ he shouts, slamming a fist against the controls. 

But his snarl is more of a grimace, the fist on the console is holding more and more weight with every second, he can't seem to catch his breath, and the blood from where he's pressing his injured hand against his chest feels way hotter than it should. 

Shock. He's losing too much blood, the damage that was manageable before becoming more pressing with each passing second. Either he finishes programming the TARDIS to self-destruct, or he takes her back to Earth to deal with Bracewell. He can't do both. 

Koschei constricts the blood vessels of his injured arm and spikes his adrenaline levels once more, knowing there's only so much that will do at this point, before refocusing on the image of the Dalek Supreme. 

“Choose, Doctor. Destroy the Daleks, or save the Earth. The countdown of the Oblivium Continuum has begun. Choose, Doctor. Choose. _Choose.” _

* * *

Amy feels useless. It's like Starship UK all over again, sitting against the wall and watching the Doctor modify the computers to kill the Star Whale. Only, this time, Amy is not sitting against the wall, and there's even less she can do. 

Churchill and his people are organizing the defenses as a new raid approaches, all professional and efficient like a well-oiled machine after that minute of terror when all the lights in the city had turned on. No one had been able to switch them off until, all of a sudden, they had gone out on their own. 

They cheered, knowing the Doctor was working his magic up in the Dalek spaceship they could detect but not touch, and gone back to work. 

Bracewell, feeling more determined than ever to fix the mess 'his' Ironsides have wrecked, keeps fiddling with his scanner, trying to see if he can actually contact the TARDIS instead of tap into the Dalek feeds. He modified it to synch with the Ironsides' radio channels, and managed to get a grainy black and white image with accompanying crackly sound before. 

Almost the whole map room had sucked in a breath at the same time. 

A Dalek was onscreen. It wasn't one of the Ironsides, though Amy wasn't able to tell just what made it different, other than the paler overall color and lack of toolbelt, due to the poor image. 

And the Doctor was on the ground. 

He was sitting against the TARDIS, one hand pressed tightly against his chest, and he seemed to have trouble breathing. 

For a moment, they had all feared the worst. 

But then the Daleks had started talking, and the Doctor mocked them right back about something to do with the colors red and white. Amy had let out a relieved gasp, and Churchill had patted her back without looking away from the screen. 

And then the Doctor stood up, snarled, and, without a care, turned his back on the Dalek and entered the TARDIS. 

_“See you in_ Hell.” 

When nothing had changed, Bracewell had turned the radio around and started fiddling with it, trying to establish contact with the TARDIS now that they knew the Doctor was inside. 

“Any luck?” Amy asks the scientist yet again, stepping out of the way of another soldier, and Bracewell huffs. 

“Nothing yet, I'm afraid. If only we knew the frequency, it would be so much easier…” he bemoans, and Amy makes a mental note to herself about registering the Doctor's mobile phone number when she's next in the TARDIS. 

She's not sure how _that_ would work in 1941, what with the lack of satellites, but who knows? Churchill managed to phone _them,_ after all. 

“Damnit!” Bracewell curses, slapping the scanner, and Amy blinks back to the present. “The signal cut. Either the Daleks realized we were listening in and put up some sort of scrambler, or they… moved or… something…” he explains, his voice growing thinner as he blinks owlishly and grimaces, rubbing his head. 

“Professor? Are you alright?” Amy asks, grabbing his arm when he goes pale and starts swaying in place. 

“I-Yes, just… I'm feeling a bit dizzy… I don't know… Is that a countdown?” 

“A what?” Amy asks, frowning in worry and confusion and wondering if she heard right. 

With so many people around it is possible someone is counting, but she can't make out anything more specific than some random words— 

There's a scream outside the door, and everyone turns to it just as a yellow and blue blur rushes inside and straight into Amy and Bracewell, pushing her away from the scientist and slamming the man into a wall with a hand tightly fisted in his collar. 

“What the—” 

“Who—” 

“Put those guns down!” 

“Doctor!” Amy exclaims through the chaos created by the Time Lord's sudden entrance, pushing out of the arms that caught her without bothering to look at their owner, not sure whether to feel relieved or annoyed. 

On the one hand, here he is, alive and moving quite actively, what with him shoving Amy away and manhandling Bracewell into the wall. On the other hand, he _pushed Amy away again._ She's sure he saved her life, back at the laboratory when the Ironsides revealed themselves as Daleks, but he had no reason to this time! 

“Bracewell! _Edwin!_ Look at me, _look at me!”_ he snarls, shaking the man one more time to get him to focus on the Doctor. “That's it, there you go. Can you hear it? The numbers, the countdown?” 

“I-Yes… Yes, I can. What—” 

“It's a bomb, Edwin. A bomb the Daleks put in your head,” the Doctor answers, deadly serious, and the whole map room goes silent as everyone holds their breath. “An Oblivium Continuum. It's a wormhole, a tunnel between two disparate points in spacetime. The Daleks used it as a power source, but it can easily swallow the Earth and rip it to pieces before spitting it out who knows where.” 

“And that thing is _in my head?” _

“What? No, how could a wormhole be in—Alright, no, you got it wrong. The Daleks put _the instructions_ in your head,” the Doctor corrects with a shake of his own head, but Bracewell still looks wide-eyed and about to faint. “Oblivium, it's Latin, means 'to forget completely'. That's what its original name translates into because that's how it works. You see, the Daleks trust no one, so they put the codes into your mind and then made you forget all about it until they would trigger it with a signal. That countdown you're hearing is the signal.” 

“Is that how they – I mean, the Ironsides—” 

“Yes, that's how they implanted those fake memories as well. Now, listen, hypnosis is not foolproof. You can hypnotize someone into thinking themselves a chicken or to operate an alien machine, but you can't hypnotize them to death. The human mind, primitive as is, has survival instincts. And when those are triggered? Poof! Link broken. So, the Daleks gave you everything necessary for you to blow up the Earth, but they didn't tell you what it would _do._ And how could you figure it out when you can't even read the language? You wouldn't have been able to. But now you _know_ what the Oblivium Continuum will do, you know it will _kill everyone on the planet._ And you won't let that happen, will you?” 

“N-No, no! Of course not!” 

“Then tell them! You're human, they can't hypnotize you to destroy yourself, _they can't tell you to die.” _

“They can't – They can't tell me to die. They can't make me, I won't do it!” 

“That's it!” 

“I'm human! And if two world wars haven't killed me, neither will the Daleks!” Bracewell shouts, eyes closed tightly, and stills. 

Amy holds her breath, as the whole room seems to do, though she can hear the Doctor pant quickly, his shoulders shaking with each breath. 

And then, Bracewell opens one eye. 

“The, uhm, the countdown, it… it got to zero,” he says softly, easily heard in the silence, and even the Doctor stills. “It got to zero… and it's gone now.” 

And the whole room erupts in cheers, Amy hugging Churchill tightly before she can think better of it. Bracewell slumps against the wall, looking around with a smile filled with disbelief, while the Doctor relaxes his grip on the scientist's collar, lets his head drop – and Bracewell barely manages to catch him with a startled cry as he collapses. 

“Doctor!” Amy shouts, rushing to where Bracewell is helping him sit on the floor, Churchill right behind her— “Oh my God, you're bleeding!” 

He is, it's clear as day now that Bracewell has finally pushed him away from his chest and Amy can see the Doctor properly for the first time since he burst into the room. The hand he'd kept pressed against his chest is a bloody mess, the fingers mangled, cut and burnt, with the thumb and index being so badly off that Amy is not sure whether they're still attached to the rest of the hand or held in place by the other three curled into a fist. The shirt is shredded, revealing more slashes and burns down the wrist and forearm, with some minor ones over his chest and face. A trickle of orange-tinged red blood falls from his lips, parted as he takes in gasping breaths. His forehead is covered in a sheen of cold sweat, and his skin is worryingly pale. His eyes are closed, but they open when Amy rests her hands on his cheeks, murky brown and only focusing when they finally meet hers. 

“Hey, it's alright, I've got you now,” she tells him, trying for a smile, and feels him try to shake his head under her hands. “You did it, Bracewell fought off the hypnosis and the Daleks left. We can find the bomb once you're better and deactivate it for good, and everything will be alright.” 

“I-I—” he whispers, cutting himself when he doesn't manage to form words, closing his eyes and scrunching his face as if focusing really hard on something. 

“Shush, it's okay, don't say anything—” 

“I found the bomb. In the past. I didn't know what it was, but I deactivated it,” he finally says, surprisingly clear, before grimacing and opening his eyes again to give Amy an utterly _defeated_ look. “The Daleks got away.” 

“Yeah, they did,” she answers, shifting so she can make some space for one of the women around, who has managed to find a first aid kit and starts to work on putting a tourniquet around the Doctor's arm. “But you saved the day. That thing with the lights, and now with the bomb—” 

“They got away,” he whispers again, grimace turning into a snarl as he rips his hand away from the woman bandaging it. “I was going to blow them up, rid the universe of them. I was going to make them pay for Gallifrey, and they got away again,” he hisses, using his good hand to push off Bracewell and back to his feet, and both Amy and the scientist quickly get to theirs to catch him when he wobbles. 

“Doctor, please, sit down! You're hurt!” Amy pleads almost desperately, but he shrugs them off with more strength than they thought he had left. 

“There's nothing _humans_ can do for me. The TARDIS will fix me up,” he tells them over his shoulder as he limps out of the room. 

Amy exchanges a worried look with Churchill before rushing after him. 

“At least let me help you,” she whispers softly when she catches up to him, matching his pace and walking by his side. 

She carefully, tentatively, tugs his good arm over her shoulders and wraps her own around his waist. When he sighs and leans on her, Amy lets out a relieved breath. 

They make their way to the TARDIS, back in the filing room, without problem, and Amy easily unlocks the door once the Doctor manages to get the key out of his pocket. They stop in the control room for a moment, for the TARDIS to show them a scan image depicting no alien crafts in orbit, before all the corridors but the one on their level go dark, the first door on the right opening on its own. 

Inside, as Amy hoped despite knowing it was a bathroom the last time she checked, they find an alien but clearly recognizable infirmary. 

The Doctor is somewhat groggy, but between his instructions and the images the TARDIS keeps displaying on a monitor, Amy manages to straighten his fingers—without looking too closely at just what, if anything, is keeping them attached to the palm, swallowing down bile—and puts his hand and forearm into some kind of jelly-filled cast. If the Doctor's dizzy words are to be believed, the contraption will use the jelly to mend the damage caused when the Daleks blew up his screwdriver, of all things. 

“What were you trying to do, assemble a cabinet at them?” Amy asks with a half-smirk that tries to be teasing but is too shaky to come across as such. 

The Doctor keeps dozing off now that he's in a safe location and lying flat, but Amy doesn't want to let him sleep until she's sure she has covered everything, and that he'll wake up afterwards. 

_God, I wish Rory was here… _

But he's not, and so, Amy will ask silly questions even though she knows the screwdriver _can_ be dangerous, she saw what it did to the Smilers back in Starship UK. Or was that all it can do? The Smilers were robots while the Daleks are aliens—alien robots? Or aliens in a suit?—so, would the screwdriver have affected them as it did the Smilers? Was the Doctor just bluffing when he threatened Churchill with it? 

“Detonate the TARDIS self-destruct,” the Doctor finally mumbles, seemingly not even aware he just spoke, and Amy freezes. 

The Doctor's eyes slide shut before he forces them open again, though he's unable to focus on anything in the pristine white room. Amy takes in a really slow and really deep breath – and returns her attention to the controls of the UV chamber-like thing he's lying in, deciding to focus on one problem at a time. 

The chamber is supposed to help with any internal damage he might have, like the second heart that was stopped by the Dalek's shot, back in the laboratory. The scan that fills its holographic screen shows a bunch of organs that Amy doesn't recognize, but she doesn't need to know their names to be aware of what is damaged, what with it flashing mauve. The TARDIS displays a pattern of weird glyphs on the monitor on the wall, and Amy does her best to ignore the string of technobabble the Doctor is muttering in favor of inputting the sequence in the machine. 

She follows that by attaching some drips to a bracelet and slapping it around his undamaged wrist, which displays his vitals on the screen for her to monitor. She doesn't understand them, doesn't know what should be normal, but since the TARDIS doesn't react, she assumes they are alright and proceeds to carefully maneuver something that looks like an airplane's oxygen mask over his face. 

He harrumphs like a disgruntled cat but lets her do as the TARDIS shows on the monitor without much protest. As soon as the mask is in place the bag inflates slowly, filling with an orangish mist, while the Doctor writhes on the table, gasping and coughing. Amy grabs his hand, wincing at the tight grip, but the screen still shows everything's alright, so she whispers reassurances and caresses his sweaty brow, hoping it helps. 

When the bag fills completely, he stills and relaxes his grip. 

“Are you alright?” Amy asks carefully, taking the bag off and making a note of the cabinet opening on the other side of the room, the TARDIS' way of telling her to bring the bag there. 

“Draining the lungs. Never a good experience,” he scoffs with a raspy voice, eyes closed and lying very still. “I'm going to take a nap now.” 

“Ah, is that a good idea? I really don't know how to read this screen, so…” 

“I'm not concussed, Chantho. With this medicine and some rest, I'll be back to that gravitissimal accelerator in no time,” he answers, breathier than before, and Amy knows he's asleep even before he's done speaking. 

She has no idea who Chantho is, or what is a gravitissimal accelerator, but the TARDIS seems alright with letting him rest, so Amy decides to clean up his smaller burns, and the instruments when she’s done with that. 

It doesn't take that long, which leaves her alone with thoughts she'd rather not be alone with. 

“You'll call me if something changes, right?” she asks the TARDIS, resting a hand on the wall and thinking about those bells that had taken her Raggedy Doctor away before he could hunt Prisoner Zero down. 

The TARDIS doesn't answer, only the background hum of the machinery around her, but Amy takes it as a yes. It isn't like she'd be too far for too long, anyway, she just needs some air. Besides, she still has the key. No one gets in the TARDIS but her. 

So, decision made, she gets out of the infirmary, crosses the control room, and opens the door. 

Churchill is sitting next to the staircase, a couple of boxes between him and Bracewell, occupying the other chair, and some folders and blueprints stacked on their makeshift table. 

“No, no, the Spitfires go as well,” Bracewell is saying while Churchill puffs away almost angrily at his cigar, but both men cut their conversation as they notice Amy's presence. “Ah, Miss Pond! How is the Doctor?” 

“Sleeping,” she tells them, closing the door behind her and hearing it lock with a soft click before she approaches the two men, who stand up to be eye level with her. “He's a tough one, stubborn as Hell. Still, that shot, back at the laboratory…” 

“Oh, I am so sorry for that… If I hadn't let the Daleks hypnotize me…” Bracewell bemoans, taking off his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. 

“Nonsense. When dealing with aliens, I've learnt there's little we humans can do about. And yet, you did it, Bracewell. You shook off their control and saved the country. The whole world,” Churchill cuts, taking a drag of his cigar more calmly than before, and the scientist straightens a bit with a relieved smile. “Too bad you're so determined to get rid of your ideas. They are not alien, for Pete's sake! There's no need to throw those away.” 

“Oh, but I'd rather not tempt fate. Who knows how much was influenced by the Daleks? Many of my inventions or improvements contained Ironside technology. No, Prime Minister, I'd rather scrap it all and start anew, maybe with a different focus,” Bracewell answers, more confident, and gestures to the pile of paperwork on the boxes when Amy gives him a confused look. “The Prime Minister has told me the Doctor is a time traveler, on top of being an alien, and he didn't seem too keen on my designs. So, to preserve the future, I have decided to destroy all of my more outlandish ideas. Just in case. Besides, the old human self still has quite something to offer, wouldn't you agree, Miss Pond?” he asks, tapping his own temple like an excited child, and Amy has to chuckle. 

“Who am I to disagree with a Paisley genius?” 

“Crazy Scottish people. As bonkers as the Doctor, and just as resourceful. Don't think I didn't notice you keeping that daft old alien in place, Miss Pond. Good job, K.B.O.,” Churchill huffs, a sincere smile on his face. 

Amy's cheer vanishes. 

“He was going to blow up the TARDIS to destroy the Daleks,” he tells them when they frown at her, foregoing any adornments or niceties. 

These are men living the Second World War, in the middle of the London Blitz, and with the First World War in their pasts. She's not going to insult them by using pretty words to soften the blow. 

Bracewell looks worried, but Churchill puffs at his cigar with a pensive look. 

“That bad, those Daleks, aren't they? And he said something about them destroying his planet and his people too.” 

“He's the last one. All alone, so hurt…” Amy confirms, looking down at her hands and rubbing them as if cold. “He has rules, about not killing or hurting people, and giving everyone a chance to surrender. I think he did. Give the Daleks a chance, that is.” 

“And they threatened to blow up the Earth and ran away instead,” Bracewell supplies, once more looking guilty, while Churchill huffs. 

“He gave up revenge for Earth.” 

“I don't think he had a choice,” Amy interrupts before Churchill can get lost in thought, attracting their attention. “He said that he's not supposed to interfere, but he has done it before, when there was something that was supposed to happen,” she tells them, remembering that rant in the Tower, when they found out about the Star Whale, and how he had said he _had_ to do something to keep the ship safe, or at least some of the people aboard. “I think that, maybe, he _can't_ interfere, not that he doesn't want to. He has wanted to do things before that he didn't, and ended up doing what he didn't want to. Maybe… Maybe he really, truly, _can't.” _

They fall silent after that, each lost in their thoughts, with Amy's inevitably going back to that one sentence. 

_“What were you trying to do, assemble a cabinet at them?” _

_“Detonate the TARDIS self-destruct.” _

The Doctor would have died on that ship. To save the Earth—No. To stop the Daleks, to get revenge and protect the whole of the universe, he would have died aboard that ship. 

What Amy doesn't know—what she _fears_ to ask, once he gets better—is if that had been his plan all along. 

She refuses to believe it. The Doctor, her Raggedy Doctor, is a broken man, but he's not suicidal. He's too curious, too cheeky and too much of a bastard to be suicidal. 

And yet, he had held Churchill at gunpoint—maybe—and ordered the Ironsides, whom he suspected to be Daleks, to kill him to protect the Prime Minister. He had gone up to their ship _after_ confirming they were Daleks, completely alone, and had resorted to threatening to activate the TARDIS self-destruct. And the Daleks had tried to set off a bomb that would destroy Earth to distract him, because they had _believed_ him. 

The Raggedy Doctor is not suicidal, he can't be. Can he? 

“Any good leader would give their life for their people and country. If my being at the frontlines would end this war and keep my people safe, I would be over there in an instant,” Churchill tells Amy, likely in answer to whatever expression she had been making. “The Doctor is a soldier too, no matter what name he takes. But he'll pull through. These are dark times, and there might come darker ones further ahead, but a truly devoted soldier doesn't surrender, he doesn't give up. For people and country, they fight till the end. You have to remind him of that, Miss Pond, give him a reason to fight. And I will do the same for my country.” 

_"What if you were really old, and really kind and alone? Your whole race dead. No future. What couldn't you do then?" _

_"Never give up, never give in, huh? The Doctor, the sanctimonious twat who makes people better." _

_"I know. But I also know that someone who isn't the slightest bit kind wouldn't smile at a scared seven-year-old girl." _

Amy smiles at the memories, and realizes that he already has a reason to fight. She just needs to help him remember it. 

And then, it finally dawns just what Churchill's words mean. 

"Wait, you won't ask for the TARDIS key again?" 

"I will certainly not refuse it if it's offered, but no. I have seen enough," Churchill answers calmly, almost solemn for a moment, before taking another puff of his cigar and giving her a mischievous smirk. "Besides, you, Miss Pond, are very obviously Scottish _and_ from the future. And there is no way any British, Welsh or Irish will not fight for _at least_ as long as a Scottish! So, I will hold out hope. There is still reason to live and to fight, Miss Pond. _You_ have shown us that much," he explains, gesturing to both Bracewell and himself with his cigar, as well as giving a meaningful look at the TARDIS. 

Amy blinks, startled, before she manages a small smile, which both Bracewell and Churchill return. 

“Keep buggering on?” 

“Keep buggering on, Miss Pond.”

**Author's Note:**

> The Master falling off the roof in surprise? Based on the way the Doctor bolted in _Dalek,_ when he realized just what the Metaltron was. The Eleventh Doctor knew not all Daleks had been destroyed, as he'd had different encounters with them before, so he just stood up to the Ironside. The Master? Well, let's say he had more important things to worry about in those eighteen months playing Harold Saxon than check if Daleks kept coming back from the dead, like preparing the Toclafane, the Paradox Machine, his election and Plan B (aka the Books of Saxon); checking the background of the Doctor's companions in case of trouble (which is why he mentions the Bad Wolf when he finally catches Martha, at the end of the Year That Never Was, but doesn't bother learning _why_ because Rose is not a problem anymore); and trying to find out what happened to Gallifrey.
> 
> On a different note, I decided to watch some Classic Who, and which episode is better to start with than _Terror of the Autons,_ the Master's very first appearance? So, I did. As soon as Delgado appeared onscreen, I realized where all the high praise comes from. Now _that_ was amazing, very Master-y, so cool and confident and just _whoa._ And then, we jump to the Doctor's first appearance in the episode. My reaction? I literally spat my tea, broke down laughing, and shouted at the screen _that's definitely the Doctor!_
> 
> Next time: Koschei and Amy meet people that know a lot more and not as much as they are comfortable with, and a familiar face returns with a grim warning.


End file.
